


Thick as Thieves

by arthurmorgan-s-heart (Silverblind)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, light spoilers, the gilded cage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/arthurmorgan-s-heart
Summary: You meet an unlikely ally at the Mayor's party, and decide to work together.





	Thick as Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill from my tumblr blog. Uploaded here for convenience - find me on tumblr - arthurmorgan-s-heart
> 
> Original request text: "Can you try and do one where the reader is trying to rob the same thing Arthur and gang are trying to rob and it results in hearteyes from across the crime scene?"

You  love high society parties.

Not so much because you enjoy them - though there is always good food and drink, if nothing else -, but mostly because of their guests.

Or rather, what they have in their pockets.

Which is what you would usually be stealing, had you not been paid to be at this party to take something else entirely.

You normally try to stay away from politics - for a thief like you, it usually involves too much risk and too little reward. But the money offered for this job was too good to pass up; and so you ended up here, at the Mayor’s mansion, dressed in your best gown and mingling with Saint Denis’ elite.

The night has been lucrative so far; despite your objective being different than usual, you have not been able to resist picking a few pockets. If this job goes south, you should at least earn yourself a pretty penny with that you’ve already taken.

You observe the guests from your spot on the gallery above the crowd while you wait for an opportunity to sneak inside the mansion and look around - most of the guests are the regular upstarts and bootlickers, with a few actually interesting people sprinkled in. Behind you, you hear the door open as new guests arrive. You turn your head, just enough to catch a glimpse of them from the corner of your eye - four men. Despite their tuxedos, it is easy for you to tell that they do not belong here. Two of them - a bit older than the other two - could probably fool an untrained eye (which should be the case of just about everyone here but you). The others are obviously out of their element - one is balding, unkempt, and walks like a man who just spent days in the saddle. And the other…

He holds himself well - he is handsome, if a bit rough around the edges, and well-dressed. But something about him screams that his apparent civility is but a facade, a show; that he could drop the act at a moment’s notice and unleash untold violence upon all that cross him - a wolf amongst sheep. A shiver runs up your spine, and you’re not sure whether it’s out of nervousness or excitement.

They stop at the banister next to you, and you have to strain to hear them speak over the din of the party.

“Go find the Mayor if you can, and stay outta trouble,” says one of the older men. By the way the others look to him, he is obviously their leader - whoever -  _ whatever _ \- they may be. “And steal nothing - unless it’s information.”

“Okay,” says the strange man. He turns to go, and his eyes fall on you; you look away half a second too late - you know he saw you looking at him. Hopefully, he’ll think nothing of it. You hear him step away, and you breathe a quiet sigh of relief as you resume your eavesdropping.

“Hosea, you go find us somewhere to rob,” continues the man. That piques your interest. So, you were right - they do not belong here any more than you do. “Bill, go make us some new friends. I’m gonna find out if old Cornwall and what’s-his-name, Milton, knows we’re here.”

You turn your attention back to the party as they scatter - but do not hear the footsteps coming up behind you until it’s too late. You jump at the hand that suddenly grabs your upper arm - tight enough to hold you in place, but not enough to hurt. You look up and see the stranger from before - his eyes are dark and cold as they search your face.

“No one ever tell you eavesdroppin’ is rude, miss?” he hisses against your ear. You consider playing innocent for a moment - you  _ are _ awfully good at it. But you have a feeling that it would be useless in this particular case. You instead opt for bluntness.

“Just evaluating the competition,” you reply. “After all, they say there’s no honour among thieves.”

He seems taken aback by your brazen admission. You’re both silent for a long while, sizing each other up.

“Ain’t stealin’ nothin’ but information,” he eventually says gruffly. You smile.

“So I’ve heard,” you answer. “And I’m here for the same thing. Perhaps we can help each other.”

You don’t know exactly what compelled you to say that; you don’t usually burden yourself with an accomplice. But the words are out. He seems to study you for a moment, looking you over from head to toe, before his hand falls away from your arm; his face is set into a scowl and his mouth in a grim line as he leans on the banister next to you.

“What do you know?”

“Depends what you’re looking for,” you start as you turn toward him. “I heard your friend mention a Mr. Cornwall? I assume he meant Leviticus Cornwall?” At his nod, you continue. “Well, Mr. Cornwall has close dealings with the Mayor, Mr. Lemieux. Any details about their partnership - letters, notes, what have you - would be kept in the mayor’s study.”

“Mhm. And you?”

“I’m looking for anything incriminating regarding the Mayor’s dealings with Mr. Angelo Bronte,” you answer.

To your surprise, that draws a chuckle from him. He seems to relax, if only a little. 

“Could always go up there and ask Bronte yourself,” he says, gesturing to the balcony above. “Ain’t sure he’d be so welcoming, though.”

You can’t help a smile. He looks at you again - longer, and, it seems, with more warmth than before. He really is handsome, you see it now. In another life, being the object of such a man’s attention might have made you blush.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Bronte has plenty to say about the Mayor,” you say. “But I need more than words - I need actual evidence. Again, letters, notes, receipts - anything.”

“The Mayor’s study, huh?” he says pensively. He looks to the party for a moment before his eyes return to you. “Pretty sure I saw it earlier, when I was inside. Upper floor, first door on the right - there was a desk inside, and they seemed pretty keen on keepin’ that door locked. Could be worth a look.”

“I believe so. I knew we could help each other, Mr….?”

“Arthur Morgan,” he says. “And you…?”

“Y/N will do,” you answer simply. 

“Alright.”

“And now,” you turn away from the party and toward the doors leading inside, “all that’s left to do is get inside without anyone seeing us.”

“Seems easy enough,” he says, following as you step closer and look inside. “No one there.”

“Alright then,” you say. You see him reach out to push the door open, but a shadow from inside catches your eye, and you snatch his hand as you drag him with you toward the shadow of a nearby pillar. A man in white - the Mayor’s assistant, you’re fairly certain - rushes through the hall and up a small staircase.

“That’s where we need to go,” Arthur whispers. You nod and move away from him once the man is out of sight, letting go of his hand as you signal for him to follow you.

You push open the door quickly and slip inside, followed by Arthur. You both make your way up as quickly and as silently as possible. You hold up a hand for Arthur to stop as you peek around a corner, seeing the Mayor’s assistant unlocking a door - first on the right, just as he had said - before pushing it open. Arthur moves closer to you, leaning over you to get a closer look. His proximity is distracting, but you try and ignore it - no time for that now. You both watch as the man puts away something - a book? - in the top drawer of the Mayor’s desk before - thank God - leaving through another door.

“Come on,” Arthur whispers, moving around you to enter the study. You follow him in and close the door behind you. You see him go for the drawer while you scan the papers left on top of the desk. Right away, you find a letter from the Mayor to Bronte, thanking him for his donations. Technically, nothing illegal, but a good start. You tuck the letter away in your bodice and turn toward Arthur when you see him reach for the letter opener, fiddling with the locked drawer for a second before prying it open.

“A ledger,” he says as he reaches inside, holding it up for you to see. Yes - this is exactly what you need. You see him flip it open, flicking a few pages before he seems to come upon something that interests him. “Mr. Leviticus Cornwall…” he reads aloud. “Top secret… extremely confidential…” His eyes leave the page to meet yours, and his pleased - bordering on smug - smile seems to spark something inside you. “Very interesting.”

“So, it seems we’ve both found what we were looking for,” you say, extending an empty hand toward him. He snaps the ledger closed and hands it over. You open it again and skim its pages quickly. Multiple sums from Bronte - in the  _ thousands  _ of dollars - marked down as ‘charitable donations’. Perfect. You look back up at him and smile. “A very successful partnership, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Morgan?”

“Sure,” he answers. “Let’s get outta here.”

You follow him as he leaves the study - taking care to close the drawer and lock the door again. The ledger is too big for you to hide, but you don’t have far to go. But just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps coming toward you - too close for you both to reach the door in time or go back up the staircase. 

“Shit,” you hear him curse under his breath.

Without thinking, you reach out, grabbing the lapel of his tuxedo with one hand and drawing him against you as you press your back against the wall, hiding the ledger from sight between you and him. He catches himself with one hand on the wall next to your head, the other finding your waist almost instinctively.

“What the - “

Your lips on his cut him off just in time as a guard steps into the hall. Arthur groans against your lips - more in protest than anything else, you suspect, but you feel his grip on you tighten slightly, and a sharp point of heat runs up your spine. You see the guard avert his eyes before clearing his throat.

“Sir, Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to stay outside, please,” he says, too loud for the distance between you. Ignoring Arthur’s reproachful look as you turn your head away, you look past him and to the guard.

“Oh, I do apologise,” you say, infusing your speech with just the right amount of apparent drunkenness. You look back to Arthur - despite his previous objection, there is a need in his eyes - raw and barely contained. The hand he has on your waist feels as if it’s burning through your gown. “Come, darling, let’s find a more… private place.”

He keeps you against him as he leads you toward the door, making a show of helping you walk - and keeping the ledger hidden. Once outside, he guides you away from the party and to a small, deserted side garden. Only then do you step away, letting your hand linger on his shoulder perhaps a tad longer than you need to before setting the ledger down on a nearby bench as you sit.

“Was that really necessary?” he growls, watching as you reach up to tuck away a few strands of hair that had come loose. You smile.

“It worked, didn’t it?” you shoot back, smoothing your skirt back into place. “Was it really so terrible?”

You hear him step closer and look up in time to see him reach for you, drawing you to your feet and against him before his lips find yours in a searing kiss. You gasp in surprise but gladly give in as his hands find your hips, while you reach up to press a hand to the back of his head and grab at the lapel of his tuxedo again with the other. He tastes like champagne and tobacco and kisses you like a man starved.

“No, I guess not,” he whispers between kisses. You laugh quietly and meet his lips one last time before you part.

He steps away and picks up the ledger you had left on the bench before handing it to you. You let your fingers deliberately brush the back of his hand when you take it from him, and you wish you had the time to kiss the smirk off his face - but as much as you might enjoy it, you had already overstayed your welcome.

“Well, Mr. Morgan,” you say as you turn away to leave. “I don’t say this often, but I  _ do  _ hope I’ll see you again.”

“Oh, I’m thinkin’ you will,” is all he says as he watches you leave, and his words almost sound like a promise. A promise you expect he will certainly keep. You’ll make sure of it.

  
  
  



End file.
